


Like a Bad Biography

by worrylesswritemore



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 07:20:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13230756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: An anthology of heartbreak, mistakes, paradise, and spoiled delights.





	1. 1.1.18

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me on tumblr, these drabbles will not be unfamiliar to you. As part of collecting all of my drabbles that I've posted on tumblr, I am cross-posting all of my previously unpublished work here.  
> I'm going to try to post about three to five drabbles a day (because I've written quite a lot) until I'm caught up.
> 
> (NOTE: These drabbles are not connected unless explicitly stated)

**_2 am /  and i like you_ **

Whizzer lets his face press against the glass, looking wondrously at how the headlights make the highway signs glow in the dark.

Beside him, Marvin has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on Whizzer’s knee, as if the only thing keeping him in the car is Marvin’s touch.

Which is quite true, he supposes, at least to some degree.

“I’ve never left the city.” Whizzer says, quiet, because there’s something about nighttime that makes him feel the need to be quiet.

“We used to have a summer house in the country,” Marvin tells him, “When I was a kid. I guess we still sorta own it, but I haven’t been there in years.”

“Why’s that?”

“Jason hated it,” Marvin says, shrugging, “And I think Trina did too. And I think I did, just a little bit. It was so - isolating.”

“Isolation could be fun,” Whizzer says, just as Marvin squeezes his knee, “When spent with the right sort of people.”

Marvin keeps driving, farther and farther out of the city limits. Whizzer keeps talking, because Marvin’s the kind of guy that takes silence as an indication of surrender.

After awhile, on a deserted offshoot of the main highway, Marvin pulls over the car on a grassy, abandoned field, turning the car off and looking at Whizzer in the dark. His hand on his knee starts to wander upward.

Whizzer smirks, remarking mostly to himself, “We’re getting good at this.”

“This?” Marvin touches him just as he leans over and brushes his lips against Whizzer’s neck.

“Being isolated,” Whizzer says, “From the rest of the world. From - consequence.”

“I like you.” Marvin whispers, sounding hilariously like a blustering ten-year-old with a crush.

Whizzer doesn’t tease him - not this time, not tonight.

Instead, he tangles a hand in Marvin’s hair, adjusting his seat to lie directly back just as Marvin swings over to settle in his lap, “And I like you.”

* * *

 

**_2 am_ **

Cordelia is lying on her side, eyes closed and breath steadied. She’s been trying to fall asleep for hours now, but no matter how many fucking sheep she tries counting, all that keeps her awake is counting the minutes that Charlotte should have been home by now.

When she hears the faint noise of the front door opening, Cordelia sighs, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for the past five hours. Cordelia fights the urge to jump out of bed and greet Charlotte, knowing that Charlotte hates when Cordelia waits up for her. It makes her feel guilty, in a way that Cordelia selfishly feels like she  _should_.

It takes a few minutes before Charlotte enters the bedroom, but when she does, Cordelia feigns sleep, listening to the rustle of clothes as Charlotte undresses and readies for bed. Cordelia smiles when she feels a dip in the mattress, unable to help herself.

When Charlotte reaches to pull the covers over her, she accidentally touches Cordelia’s shoulder. Cordelia jumps at the contact, the warmth of her doctor’s skin a shocking jolt of contrast to the cold bed.

Charlotte stiffens, murmuring in apology, “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, Baby.” Cordelia doesn’t open her eyes, so she only feels the pressure of Charlotte’s lips on her own before they draw away far too soon.

Cordelia doesn’t say anything, like how she wasn’t sleeping, like how she can never sleep when the bed is cold and empty, like how her doctor is saving lives at the price of sacrificing the one that they had spent so much time building together.

No, Cordelia doesn’t say any of that. Instead, she just goes to sleep.

* * *

 

**_I didn’t mean it_ **

Whizzer and Marvin stare at one another, quiet and devastated.

Marvin’s words lie scattered between them, as sharp and jagged as shards of glass. Whizzer should be glad that it was only words, that it is only  _ever_ words. It should make everything better - make everything seem more okay.

But Whizzer doesn’t feel any better. Or even  _okay_.

Marvin swallows, back-tracking, like he  _always_ does when he says something and Whizzer suddenly stops yelling and he looks at him like  _that_ , like he just broke his heart -  _again_ , “I didn’t mean it.” Because that’s how his apologies always go - never actually including the word  _Sorry._

“Yeah,” Whizzer murmurs, quiet and devastated, “You never do, do you?”

* * *

 

**_and I like you_ **

It’s too early. Mendel _knows_ that it’s  _way_ too early.

They’ve only been seeing each other for two weeks now -  _less than a month._ It’s been, what?  _Three_ dates? Hardly enough to validate this burrow of cicadas in his chest.

But Mendel is looking at her - beautiful and warm, like that sort of quiet, hot day right before it storms - and in her eyes, he feels like he’s home, and the cicadas start to scream louder.

 _I love you,_  he thinks.

“I like you.” He says because it’s just too damned early. Isn’t it?

But Trina looks at him, and something in her face goes soft.

“And I like you.” She replies, but Mendel gets what she means.

_I love you, too._

* * *

 

**_Sweat / Ribs_ **

The ceiling fan does little to circulate air in the muggy apartment, leaving Marvin and Whizzer to drown in the humidity with little to do to help except distract one another.

“No offence,” Whizzer says in a pant, closing his eyes and seemingly trying to lose himself in the friction of Marvin’s hips against his own, “But if I had the option between you and an electric fan to blow me, you would be my second choice.”

Marvin rolls his eyes, placing a bite down on Whizzer’s third rib rather than a kiss, “Rude.”

“I’m just being realistic,” Whizzer defends himself, “I could die from a heatstroke. I don’t think I could die from blue balls. After all, how many decades did you seem to make it before you met me?”

Marvin licks the moisture gathering at Whizzer’s skin, secretly hoping that it will quench his drying throat, “You’re really killing the mood.”

“This  _heat_ is killing the mood; I’m simply being used as its mouthpiece.”

“Yeah,” Marvin murmurs, cutting his eyes up at Whizzer in a way that makes the other man shiver regardless of the humidity, “When your mouth could be doing something way more useful.”

“Don’t objectify me, Marvin,” Whizzer scolds, though his mouth is curved into a smile, “Not when I’m so delirious that I can’t even enjoy it.”

Marvin laughs, pressing his face against Whizzer’s chest and breathing deep.

Whizzer finally lays a hand on him, placing his palm just below Marvin’s ribs.

“My deepest and darkest fantasy has changed,” Whizzer informs him, “It’s now about you and me moving to Iceland to fuck in front of some apathetic penguins.”

“Iceland doesn’t have penguins,” Marvin says, “It’s actually pretty hot up there.”

“Bullshit.”

“It is  _not bullshit_.”

“I changed my fantasy again,” Whizzer replies, “It is now about just me moving to Iceland and meeting a really sexy guy in a snow suit and we fuck in the snowy hills of Iceland because  _it’s called fucking Iceland._ ”

“Oh my god,” Marvin groans, “The heat is making you even more of an insufferable bastard.”

“Wow,” Whizzer muses, “You know, Lars would never say that to me.”

“Who the fuck is Lars?”

“My hot Icelandic prince,” Whizzer sighs dreamily, “Whose dick is made of ice.”

“Okay, mood officially ruined,” Marvin abruptly sits up, smirking at Whizzer’s involuntary whine at the sudden absence of contact, “I’m going over to Charlotte and Cordelia’s.”

“Fine,” Whizzer mopes, “I guess I’ll just move to Iceland by myself.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Marvin slips his shorts back on, “Say hi to Lars and his penguins for me.”

“Don’t forget about his dick made of ice.” Whizzer says, making Marvin seriously consider checking Whizzer into a hospital for suspicion of heatstroke.

* * *

 

**_Rose-colored_ **

When Whizzer leans away, Marvin’s lips are bitten rose-colored, matching his insufferable perspective of the world and his role in it.

Marvin initially looks confused at the absence of Whizzer’s mouth, opening his eyes and frowning up at him in a petulant way that most toddlers do when they don’t get their way.

“What’s wrong?” Marvin asks, but really he means  _Why’d you stop?_

Whizzer smiles, running a hand through Marvin’s ruffled hair in a feigned attempt to fix it, “You look cute when you’re disheveled.”

“ _Cute_?” Marvin repeats, disgust in his voice, “I think you meant devastatingly handsome and rugged.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, “Just take the compliment, Marv.”

Looking at his lover with rose blooms in his eyes, Marvin smiles, causing more red to pool into his lips.

“You know,” Whizzer murmurs, tilting Marvin’s head back with a thumb pressed under his chin, “I wish I was a poet.”

Marvin arches an eyebrow, vaguely exasperated but curious nonetheless, “Why’s that?”

Whizzer touches Marvin’s rose-colored mouth with his fingertips, “Because you deserve to be immortalized, looking like that.”

Marvin’s eyes grow soft, and his cheeks burn rouge, and Whizzer is reminded of why roses are his favorite flower.


	2. 1.1.18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a couple of my favorites from the tumblr falsettos mini-fic party (organized by the amazing @eldertwelvecupsofcoffee; please, go follow her. She's great and one hell of a writer herself).

The cold air paints rouge into his cheeks, matching the hue of her stained lips. 

Though his voice never loses any gusto or passion (or thinly veiled nervousness, but that’s been present for the past three dates), Mendel shivers betwixt every other word. Likewise, the thin material of her sweater does little to protect Trina from the frigid air, and she has to resist the urge to bury her nearly frostbitten hands in the pockets of Mendel’s wool jacket.

It’s so  _cold_ tonight - far too cold to be prowling the streets of New York, admittedly - but neither of them acknowledge this fact. Maybe because they’re both stubborn. Maybe because they’re a little more drunk than they’d like to admit. Or maybe it’s because - if they acknowledge the late hour, the testy climate - it will bring an end to their evening, and neither necessarily want to go back to their separate lonely houses.

The wind nymphs rake their invisible, thimble fingers through her hair, making it whip in the air as if dancing to a song unbeknownst to mankind. Her windswept appearance has caught Mendel’s eye more than once in the past ten minutes, and it thrills Trina in a way that she would never admit.

But it’s just so  _intoxicating_ \- to have so close of a man’s attention. To be noticed.

To be  _desired_.

Trina thinks again about putting her hands in Mendel’s pockets, though not for the purpose of warming her hands.

“A lot of people disregard the bee’s purpose and significance to our very own endurance as a species.” Mendel affirms avidly, and Trina tries to pay attention, but her mind wanders to how his lips form words and curve into a smile.

He’s a bit of a know-it-all, she supposes, but at least not to the extent that Marvin is. Still, though, Trina supposes that she has a  _type_.

(She thinks about the way that Mendel had smiled at their waiter only an hour earlier, and even though the exchange was objectively harmless and offhanded, it had still made her stomach clench and eyes water.

She hopes to God she doesn’t have that  _type)_.

“Without bees, we wouldn’t have honey.” Trina adds, just in an effort to engage in the conversation. Wildly, she expects Mendel to scoff and roll her eyes at her obvious observation, just as Marvin would any time she tried to “interrupt” his many rants of nonsensical academic pretension.

However, Mendel just looks at her with stars in his eyes and smiles, “ _Exactly_. And what’s the point of living without that?”

_What’s the point of living at all, really?_

She doesn’t say that. It’s a little morbid and probably only funny to her.

“You’re right,” Trina says instead, “The world needs all the sweetness it has left.”

Mendel, not for the first time tonight, looks like he wants to kiss her.

Trina hopes that she looks like she wants him to kiss her.

With a jolt in her heart, she notices that Mendel has slowed to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. She falls into place with him, idly marveling at the fact that almost everything they do is perfectly in sync.

With dark eyes, he licks his lips and then winces at how the harsh wind bites at the moisture. Trina imagines one of the wind nymphs stealing that kiss from him and feels an irrational sense of jealousy. 

Unable to suppress it any further, Trina shivers - from the cold or from the anticipation, the truth is lost on her.

Mendel blinks, already beginning to slip off his jacket, “Are you cold? Here, you can - “

Trina kisses him then. His lips are cold but his mouth is a furnace, and the chill that’s gathered at the base of her spine melts under the warmth of him. Mendel makes a soft noise into her mouth, one that Trina swallows and keeps locked in her heart.

He buries a hand in her hand, places the other on her waist. And not for the first time, it feels like Mendel - sweet, charming, warm Mendel - is the only one keeping her anchored to the ground.

It isn’t their first kiss - far from it - but the way that her lips tingle and heart explodes feels like it is.

When she pulls back, she says, breathless and starved for the touch of his hands, “I’m always warm when I’m with you.”

He gives her the coat anyway. And Trina doesn’t know if warm necessarily has a smell, but she thinks that - if she had to put it into words - she would describe the scent of Mendel Weisenbachfeld.

* * *

 

It was supposed to happen last  _month_. And then the week after  _that_. And then the week after  _that_. And then  _last_ week.

However, it always ends the same - Charlotte cancelling last minute due to some doctor emergency and Cordelia nursing her disappointment with more than a third of a bottle of wine all by her lonesome.

Jesus Christ, this doctor is lucky that she’s cute.

On one such night, Cordelia gets the expected phone call,  _“I’m so sorry, ‘Delia. But they literally have no one else, and I’m the only rookie that gets stuck with these shitty hours, and I can’t say ‘sorry, but my shift is over’ to the guy that’s literally bleeding out. You know?”_

Cordelia nods, trying to keep the resignation from her voice, “It’s - fine.” And even though that is is kinda not-very-fine-at-all-actually, Cordelia can’t just  _say_ that, right? After all, it’s not like Charlotte is purposefully blowing her off. She’s just -  _busy_.

And Cordelia gets that. She understands that she can’t be someone’s number one priority.

Or  _anyone’s_ priority, apparently. 

After she hangs up the phone, Cordelia slips off her heels, unclips her hair, and opens up a new bottle of wine.

:: - ::

Around two in the morning, Cordelia wakes up from her almost-sleep-but-yet-not-quite-there slumber and answers the ringing phone.

Charlotte’s smooth, melodic voice echoes through the telephone wire, “I just got off.”

Cordelia snorts, still delirious from being half-asleep, “That makes one of us then.”

Charlotte laughs - sharp and rich. Cordelia’s heart flutters at the beautiful sound of it.

There’s a hesitation in her voice before she finally asks forwardly (just as she had when she first asked Cordelia out in the first place),  “Can I still see you?”

Cordelia wants to yell  _yes_ , but she stops herself.  

“It’s late.” She says instead, “Aren’t you tired?” She can’t imagine how running rounds all day and night must feel, how bone-tired Charlotte must be. Cordelia is trying to be considerate.

However, Charlotte misinterprets this, “Oh. Well, if you’re tired, we can - “

“ _No_.” Cordelia shouts, belatedly embarrassed at her enthusiastic response, “I - I  _want_ to. I just - you don’t need to make this a priority.”

“ _Make_ this? Cordelia, you’ve always been my priority.”

Cordelia’s heart flutters, and she finds herself saying, “Yeah, there’s still some wine left. Come over.”

:: - ::

They stay up until dawn, talking and giggling and getting drunk on cheap wine and one another’s presence. They sit on Cordelia’s kitchen floor, pressed against each other with their heads close together.

Charlotte kisses her that night, happy and coy and doey-eyed. 

And Cordelia could get used to this - to being someone’s priority.

* * *

When Marvin opens his palm to reveal the circle of gold, Whizzer  _laughs._

Which -  _okay_. That’s a little… _discouraging_ , to say the least.

“What is  _that_?” Whizzer demands, looking endlessly amused, “Marv, Sweetie, you know I’m not knocked up, right? We don’t need a shotgun wedding.”

“It’s a promise ring.” Marvin explains, his voice growing curt at the flippant mockery on his boyfriend’s face, “I thought it would be - you know, romantic.”

Whizzer doesn’t even seem to get the significance of this whole ordeal as he just grabs from Marvin’s hand and places it on his finger, all the while snorting, “A  _promise_ ring? What are you  _promising_ then - not to throttle me when I burn the macaroni and cheese?”

_No, it’s my endless love and devotion to you._

“If you don’t want it, then give it back,” Marvin says, his voice way sharper than intended, “It’s not a big deal.”

He reaches for the ring but Whizzer recoils back, the amusement slipping from his face.

“Fuck off. You already promised your love for me.” Whizzer says, strangely defensive all of a sudden, though there’s feigned humor in his serious voice as if he’s still trying to play it down, “There’s no take-backs for that shit.”

Marvin rolls his eyes, “Whizzer, you don’t have to pretend for me - “ But then he catches sight of the way that Whizzer is twisting the band around his finge as he silently marvels at the way that the fluorescent lighting catches the gold and makes it glow.

Marvin cuts himself off abruptly.

“Thanks, Marvin.” Whizzer says after a pause, his voice strangled with sincerity and awkwardness, “Really.”

Marvin doesn’t call him out on it, nor does he try to make a joke. Instead, he wraps an arm around Whizzer and places a kiss on his hairline.

* * *

 

“So, um. We should talk - “

_“Nope.”_

“Whizzer, you can’t just  _nope_ out of a conversation.”

“Yes, I can. Look, watch me do it right now: _nope_.”

“Look, I get that you’re a little embarrassed, and to be fair, I should have handled it better. You just -  _surprised_ me.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Whizzer, stop it. It isn’t a big deal.”

“If it’s not a big deal, then let’s not talk about it. That’s not such a novel idea, is it?”

“ _Whizzer_.”

“Nope.”

“I mean, if it makes you feel any better - “

“Nope.”

“ - Even though the circumstances were  _exponentially_ different than this, it’s not the first time I’ve been called  _Daddy_ - “

_“NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE.”_ **(Whizzer subsequently nopes out of the bedroom, pursued by bear).**

* * *

“Why are you baking muffins at three in the morning?” Trina asks mid-yawn, stumbling through the dim-lit kitchen. Mendel vaguely realizes that perhaps he might have gotten a little loud while wrestling the pan from out of the cabinet. 

He wants to tell her about how the late hours at the office have fucked up his sleep schedule. He wants to apologize for coming home so late and then trying to stay up to make fucking muffins rather than crawling into bed with her. He wants to admit how much he’s grown to hate his fucking job.

But he doesn’t say any of those things.

Instead, he just explains, “Because I’ve lost all control over my life.”

He doesn’t mean it as a joke, and his wife thankfully doesn’t treat it as one. Instead, she just nods, ties her hair up in a ponytail, and pushes up her sleeves, “Okay. Let’s get to work.”

Mendel stares wondrously at her, admitting for the thousandth time in their marriage, “I love you.”

Trina gives him a smile and pats his cheek endearingly,  “I know.”

* * *

Whizzer walks awkwardly into the principal’s office, abruptly swarmed with memories of his own reckless youth. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Jason sitting in the corner of the room, looking like a melted puddle of fear and exhaustion on that ugly sofa. Whizzer’s heart breaks for the kid a little bit, though his empathy is slightly tempered by the fact that this little impromptu visit is directly interfering with his _relaxation hour_  (read: nap hour). 

Jesus, the kid is lucky that Marvin couldn’t get off of work; when he called Whizzer on the phone, he was livid. He couldn’t imagine how this meeting would have went with Mr. My-Son-Can-Do-No-Harm-Now-What-The-Fuck-Did-He-Do.

“Are you his father?” The principal - some old looking fart in a cheap suit that makes Whizzer visibly recoil - demands.

The way that the old man is glaring at him, Whizzer feels like there’s somehow a  _right answer_  to this question that the man is expecting.

“Yes?” Whizzer says hesitantly before clearing his throat and affirming, “I - I mean,  _yes._  Yes, I am.” In an effort to look more “father-like,” he tries to mirror Marvin’s posture when the man tries to parent Jason - frustrated, resigned, broken spiritually and emotionally.

It seems to work as the principal doesn’t ask any further inquiries.

“Your son is suspended for two days.” The principal tells Whizzer, causing the younger man to gawk.

“Jesus, what did he do? Not color in the lines or something?”

“Jason, why don’t you repeat to your father what you had called the lovely Mrs. Grisham?”

“You mean after she said ‘bless you heart’ when she found out I had two gay dads?” Jason prefaces before continuing, completely deadpan, “I called her a chicken finger fucker.”

Whizzer very nearly loses it on the spot.

“Sir, are you okay?” The principal asks, worried at how Whizzer has to immediately turn away from him so he doesn’t see his expression.

“Yeah, yeah - I’m just. Uh. Trying to. Process my, uh.  _Disappointment_. In my son.”

_Chicken finger fucker._

Whizzer tries to smother his laugh with a horribly faked cough.

“The teacher is being dealt with for her insensitivity,” The principal assures Whizzer (which, yeah, unlikely - but whatever) “However, I believe that Jason’s response was inappropriate. He should not be using profane language like that - especially to undermine an authority figure.”

_By calling her a chicken finger fucker._

Whizzer bites the inside of his cheek, almost hard enough to draw blood. 

He turns to Jason and says, “We are going to talk about your - profanity, young man. That is just - unacceptable.”

Jason gives Whizzer a puzzled look, as his commanding voice says one thing but the barely contained humor on his face says another, “Uh - okay?”

They barely make it to the parking lot before Whizzer nearly collapses.

_“You called her a chicken finger fucker?”_

Jason honest to god preens a little, “Yeah.”

Whizzer laughs harder than he has in  _years_ , “Jesus, you  _are_ my son somehow, aren’t you?”

* * *

In the dim lighting of the bedroom, Whizzer marvels at the way that the shadows catch and illuminate Marvin’s face, enunciating the slope of his nose, the arch of his cheekbones, the defined angle of his jawline.

The flickering contrast between light and dark makes him look almost ethereal in the soft lighting, like some god from an ancient myth that Whizzer half-remembers learning about at school.

In this moment, Marvin is tangled in the sheets next to him, sweaty and sated and laughing in a way that makes Whizzer want to crawl into his mouth and bathe in the baritone of the sound.

In this moment, Marvin has transcended beyond the hollow shell of a man that had awkwardly propositioned him in that bar, several months ago. Whizzer recounts how every touch of his hand, every placement of his lips, every breathless word breathed into his skin has somehow breathed back life into this man. Marvin has become revised, rejuvenated,  _reborn_. 

In this moment, Marvin looks - powerful. Blissful.  _Alive_.

Whizzer can’t remember a time when another man had transfixed his attention in such a way, that no matter how long he looked or touched or kissed, he was still begging for more.

In this moment, Marvin looks over at him with bursting nebulae in his eyes, like  _Whizzer_ is the ethereal beast in this bed.

And it makes Whizzer feel - powerful. Blissful.  _Alive._

Whizzer leans over and kisses him, biting at his lip and swallowing Marvin’s breathless laugh. 

Because maybe - in this fleeting, selfish, glorified moment - they are both gods in the mythology of lust and selfishness and greed and reckless abandon and  _love_.

Absently, as he’s mapping Marvin’s body with his tongue, Whizzer tries to think of a myth that doesn’t end in tragedy.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> To get a first look at new work, please follow me @moreracquetball. Through my askbox, you can send fic requests like the ones you see here.  
> For my numbered list: https://moreracquetball.tumblr.com/post/169058565552/fic-writing-prompts  
> Just go into my ask and send me a number and a pairing!
> 
> Also, comments are again most appreciated. I truly thrive on feedback. So, if you like what you read, leave a review!


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